The Remarkable Cause: A Novel of James Lovell and the Crucible of the Revolution

By Jean C. O'Connor

In icy March winds, pounded by the Americans’ cannon, General Howe evacuates British troops and Loyalists from Boston. James Lovell is forced into a ship bound for Halifax, while his father and family take passage for the British stronghold in the ship’s upper berth. In jail in Halifax, James can only write letters and pray for release, hoping General George Washington will hear his appeal.

In The Remarkable Cause, experience conflict and courage in the roots of the American Revolution:
• protests over the Stamp Act and Townshend Acts
• hanging in effigy, tar and feathering
• tension of the Boston Massacre trials
• troops charging Bunker Hill
• dreadful conditions in British jails for James and his fellow prisoners
• the strength of a friend, Ethan Allen of the Green Mountain Boys
• James’s passion for his family, in his own words

Jean C. O’Connor, a high school English teacher for over thirty years, researched this story using letters, journals, and documents written by James Lovell and his contemporaries. Inspired by a few sentences in her grandmother’s journal, Jean discovered details of that time far away—yet still relevant. Images from early newspapers and pictures enliven the narrative’s pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682619483

Book preview

KNOX PRESS

An Imprint of Permuted Press

ISBN: 978-1-68261-947-6

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-948-3

The Remarkable Cause:

A Novel of James Lovell and the Crucible of the Revolution

© 2021 by Jean C. O’Connor

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Cody Corcoran

This book is a work of historical fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters aside from the actual historical figures are products of the author’s imagination. While they are based around real people, any incidents or dialogue involving the historical figures are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or commentary. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Permuted Press, LLC

New York • Nashville

permutedpress.com

Published in the United States of America

For my family, who save stories, pictures, and letters.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1:        The Boston Latin School

Chapter 2:        At Harvard

Chapter 3:        Wedding Plans

Chapter 4:        Protest Against the Sugar Act

Chapter 5:        The Argument Heats Up

Chapter 6:        Burned in Effigy: Andrew Oliver, Stamp Commissioner

Chapter 7:        A Mansion Meets the Mob

Chapter 8:        Chewing on the Stamp Act

Chapter 9:        Under Liberty Tree: Andrew Oliver Forced to Resign

Chapter 10:      Stamp Act Celebration

Chapter 11:      Merchants’ Agreement, Faneuil Hall

Chapter 12:      Troops Come to Boston

Chapter 13:      Non-Importation: The Shop of Abigail Whitney

Chapter 14:      Non-Importation: Tea, Glass

Chapter 15:      Christopher Seider, Victim of Violence

Chapter 16:      Burial of Christopher Seider

Chapter 17:      The Boston Massacre

Chapter 18:      Boston Discusses the Massacre: A Short Narrative

Chapter 19:      Spinning and Tea

Chapter 20:      Boston Massacre Trial Begins: Captain Preston

Chapter 21:      Boston Massacre Trial: The Soldiers

Chapter 22:      Sentencing of Kilroy and Montgomery

Chapter 23:      Oration for the Boston Massacre

Chapter 24:      Boston Tea Party

Chapter 25:      The Tar and Feathering of Malcolm

Chapter 26:      Rising Tensions in the Schoolroom

Chapter 27:      "War’s Begun and School’s Done: Deponite Libros"

Chapter 28:      What Happened at Lexington and Concord

Chapter 29:      The Siege: Burning of Hog Island, Taking of Noddle

Chapter 30:      An Accomplice

Chapter 31:      A Window into British Plans

Chapter 32:      A Message

Chapter 33:      Bunker Hill

Chapter 34:      After Bunker Hill

Chapter 35:      Brother Benjamin

Chapter 36:      Arrested

Chapter 37:      In Boston Jail

Chapter 38:      Provost Prison, Boston

Chapter 39:      Provost Prison: A Long First Month

Chapter 40:      Provost Prison: The Second Month

Chapter 41:      Provost Prison: Third Month

Chapter 42:      Provost Prison: Winter

Chapter 43:      Boarding Ship

Chapter 44:      Arrival Halifax

Chapter 45:      The Hollis Street Jail

Chapter 46:      New Arrivals in Halifax

Chapter 47:      Unexpected Help in Jail

Chapter 48:      Surviving the Hollis Street Jail

Chapter 49:      Scurvy, Fleas, and Letters in Jail

Chapter 50:      Freedom: Going Home

Chapter 51:      A Hero’s Welcome

Chapter 52:      Off to Congress

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

Thinking / Discussion Questions

About the Author

First School House on South Side of School Street. Catalog of the Boston Public Latin School

Chapter 1

The Boston Latin School

August 4, 1752

James, would you split some wood for the fire? Abigail’s voice sounded shrill and weary as she called from the kitchen.

Right away, Mother, James answered in exasperation. He set down the thick stack of books by the heavy wooden trunk that had been his father’s and looked about the clutter in the bedroom he shared with two of his brothers, a deep frown on his usually smooth features. Here he was, packing to go off to Harvard in just a couple of weeks. Though he was a recipient of a Hollis Scholarship to Harvard, a graduate of the Boston Latin School with honors, still here he was, expected to do chores at home.

How many things has Mother asked me to do lately? James thought as he glanced down at the pine chest, layered with his best woolen coat, velveteen jacket, breeches, and white linen shirts. He had so little time to pack. Weeding the garden, dipping candles, tending to his younger brothers and sisters—all had kept him busy for weeks. If he could only get his trunk in order, it would be like a bridge to freedom, a channel to better days ahead. Now the wood, he thought. With a sigh, he admitted to himself that the more he kept busy, the faster the days would fly before he’d be stepping up into the old carriage and departing for the ivy-clad brick walls of Harvard College. He considered his stack of books, selected one, and put it back on his desk, then turned to go down the staircase.

A whiff of spicy apples simmering caught James’s attention as he stepped out the back door. Baking day, he thought, his frown relaxing. Across the cobbled paving stones of School Street, in front of his house, he glimpsed the brick school that stood just opposite the schoolmaster’s white house. This orderly, serene, and respectable place had been his home for all of his fifteen years. At the moment, though, all he could feel was excitement about leaving.

A gruff Hello, my boy, came from his father’s study, window open to the mild air. James turned around to see Master John Lovell’s expectant, serious face peering through the window at him. Have you reviewed the information I noted for you regarding course selection yet? His father gave an anxious tug on the soft smoking cap he regularly wore.

Not yet, Father, but I will soon enough. James nodded and walked towards the woodpile.

See to it that you do, Master Lovell said, his voice irritated, turning back inside.

Why must he always want more of me? James wondered, reaching the woodpile and looking about for the axe. James knew his father felt proud of him. His last recitation at the end of the school year had earned the approval of the visiting professor from Harvard and helped him win the coveted Hollis Scholarship. His father, the master of the Boston Latin School, had beamed with pleasure at the professor’s dry Well done, winking at James in delight before turning to clasp the professor’s hand.

Certainly, under his father’s teaching James had had plenty of practice in speaking. His father always drilled his students in recitations, which were really short orations. Every year the Boston selectmen paid the school a visit, their faces solemn, their manner grave. To prepare for these visits, the boys practiced speeches they had memorized in Latin. No matter how much they practiced, the schoolmaster’s face would puff with anger when there were mistakes. He’d brandish his ferule, a stubby stick gray with age, and sometimes even smack the offender on an open palm. James himself had never felt the ferule’s sting, though he knew many of his classmates had cringed at the sharp slap.

James crossed the yard to the woodpile and selected a length of pine. As he raised his axe, out of the corner of his eye he saw his older brother John entering the back gate.

Your turn, John, James called. He held the axe up towards his brother. John worked several hours each day as a novice clerk with a merchant, a position that he felt entitled him to look down on James, even though John had not finished the Boston Latin School and would never attend Harvard College.

I’m not your servant, John retorted. He brushed past James as he thrust something into his pocket.

James caught the spicy scent of cinnamon. What’s that you’ve got? he demanded.

I’ve chased off the starlings from Widow Wilson’s plum tree for now, and happens it was baking day, John responded with a grin. He stamped dust from his boots and entered the back door.

Likely John’s skill with his slingshot had earned him a muffin, then. Or maybe spice bread. James sighed and lifted the axe. Sweat wetting his brow, he stepped back from his orderly stack and passed an arm over his forehead. The August sun shone hot in the late afternoon and the air hung still and sultry. Just a few more days and I’ll be gone, he thought.

He cracked into a fat log with his sharp axe, spattering the yard with fresh pine. John always gets away with so much, he reflected. Once, at school, his father had asked James to go home and fetch him his lunch. Stepping through the garden on the way to the house, he saw John and some of the older boys near the Stone Jail, behind the school. What are you doing? James asked. John laughed carelessly.

See this? From behind his back he produced a dead squirrel. James noticed a slingshot dangling from his pocket. A classmate standing nearby snickered and swung a limp bird by the head in an arc. We’re going to break up the boredom for those prisoners in there. He motioned to the small barred windows near the roof of the jail. But don’t tell Father. We’ll get his beets hoed soon enough. John glared at James threateningly.

It was a privilege for the better students to tend the garden or to press apples for his father’s cider. That privilege did not extend to tormenting prisoners, James knew. Master Lovell, who always seemed to defend John’s actions, would probably just say John was high-spirited. However, if James had been caught flinging dead rodents into the jail window, he was pretty sure the punishment would be harsh. It seemed his father always treated him more severely than the others.

Yet he was a better reader than John, so it meant his father enjoyed spending time with him, talking about stories, myths, history, and philosophy. Always books, James thought. Sometimes he wondered why his father never talked about happenings in Boston.

For instance, once when James was young, he had glimpsed a crowd of angry workers by the docks, shouting and waving sticks, as uniformed British sailors thrust men up the plank to their ship. That was the press, workers taken by the British against their will, unlucky enough to be near the wharves when a ship needing sailors was in port. The press always caused a disturbance. He asked his father about it, but Master Lovell just sighed and looked over his spectacles at James. The press is legal, though most unpopular. If His Majesty’s ships need sailors—well…. He shrugged in resignation and changed the subject.

After that, James noticed more angry mobs. The Knowles impressment riot was one. James was about ten at the time, in his third year at the Boston Latin School. An enraged crowd filed past the school holding high a stuffed effigy of Commander Knowles, a tattered blue coat pinned over its chest, a black tri-corner cockade cap flopping loosely from side to side. The commander had not applied for the proper permit to impress sailors from the provincial governor, earning the anger of the mob when he forced some onto his ship. Master Lovell kept all the boys inside the school until it was safe to walk the streets again. Yet he said little to the boys or to his own family about the alarming episode. James thought forcing people to work on a ship surely should be wrong, even though it was legal.

Once a mob seized one of their neighbors, a customs official, and beat him because the official had been collecting unpopular taxes charged by the British on shipments. True, it was the law, but many in the town were disturbed at being taxed. James remembered shouts, men running past his home brandishing fiery brands, the clang of horses’ hooves setting sparks in the night. The whole uproar frightened him. But when he asked, his father calmly remarked that people should not interfere with the lawful collection of taxes.

It puzzled him that there were issues his father would not discuss. Maybe at college there would be others who would want to talk about questions of law, taxation, right and wrong. It was exciting to think that soon he would be around individuals with different opinions. Perhaps he would be able to talk with them about the difficulties he saw in the town of Boston.

He hefted the stack of firewood and strode to the back door, whistling. John might get a slice of spice bread from the Widow Wilson, but James was pretty sure Mother would give him an extra piece of apple pie for splitting the wood. And soon enough these tedious duties would be over, he thought, and he would be on his way.

Chapter 2

At Harvard

October 10, 1757

Wake up, James!

James rubbed his eyes and sat up. The intense blue morning sky of early October gleamed in the tall windows of his room.

It’s early—but you asked me to wake you. The shrill voice of Mrs. Harding, the plump, matronly housemother of his hall on Massachusetts Avenue, echoed up the winding staircase.

Much obliged, I’m sure, James called back.

He sat up, groaning slightly, and reached for his clothes. His stiff arms tensed like the muscles of the arm wrestlers in the tavern last night. Too much cider, he thought, pulling his shoes out from under the bed.

Since coming to Harvard five years ago, James had enjoyed visiting with friends and associates. Their conversations would turn to their studies, books, teachers, the issues of the day. Whether at a tavern, where he would meet others for a pint, or at the room of Edmund Quincy, where he gathered with the Katascopic Club, a social organization, James relished the friendly exchange of ideas.

Learning came easily to him, James realized. He felt proud that his Hollis scholarship had allowed him to attend Harvard. His father could never have afforded to pay tuition for college on his teaching salary. Moving to Cambridge had been the most exciting thing he had ever done. The four years of undergraduate study at Harvard flew by. Rhetoric, mathematics, religion, and science fascinated him. Greek, Latin, and even some Hebrew, he relished. Words were his stock-in-trade. Now, in graduate school, he felt confident his studies would earn him a better position.

How different he was from his brother John. John stuck with his position as a clerk with a merchant. His father seemed to approve, telling John, I always did think you had a wonderful head for figures. James suspected his father was disappointed that John had not shown an ability to read well and become a scholar. Yet the schoolmaster would never admit it.

Last night James had been delighted to join a group visiting with Tutor Henry Flynt in the warmth of the nearby tavern, since the respected Tutor was now retired and rarely appeared at student gatherings. A spindly, kind-eyed fellow, Tutor Flynt had guided students at Harvard for over forty years. Those at the tavern last night enjoyed the discussion with Tutor Flynt as much as James had. His observations were based on a wealth of insight and experience and added to his reputation as a knowledgeable and reliable academic figure. Besides, James thought, Tutor Flynt truly cares about students.

James buttoned his waistcoat and shrugged on his jacket. Saturday, he thought. He would not need to report to his position at the Cambridge Latin School until Monday. Tedious as working with the small scholars was, it paid his rent and tuition, which was particularly important now that he was pursuing graduate studies. Heavens knew he could not ask his father for help. Master Lovell’s teaching salary was stretched as it was, what with the needs of his household and James’s eleven younger brothers and sisters.

He shut the door to Massachusetts 25 and headed down the walk to the library, the October wind whisking leaves about his feet. A few students trudged across the common, their heads down against the wind, satchels of books slung over their arms.

His stomach growled, and he nearly bumped into a woman with dark, luxuriant hair as he fumbled in his pocket, hoping to find a biscuit. She knitted her arched brows together in disapproval and turned from him with a swirl of skirts. James bowed, watched her pacing down the walkway, and turned to go up the steps of the library.

Hours later, he pushed aside the stack of books he’d been reading, stretched, and rubbed his aching shoulders. He stood to go. The librarian’s assistant, a slim-waisted young lady with auburn locks tumbling from her cap like a bouquet spilling from a bride’s hand, caught his eye and he found himself staring. Why did young ladies so captivate his attention these days? He could no longer look anywhere without finding some attractive, smiling lass tripping by. The librarian’s assistant glanced quickly at him with reproof. He turned from her mocking gray eyes and headed purposefully out the door and down the granite steps of the library. The sun’s last rays fell orange on flaming leaves of maple and elm.

Across the common, he reached the homestead of Jonathan Hastings, the prosperous tanner whose wife served the evening meals he so enjoyed.

Come in, Jonathan said, opening the stout door to his spacious home. We’re about to break bread.

James followed him to the dining room and found a seat at one of the two long oaken tables near the other students. Candles sparkled on the mantel and a bright fire crackled on the hearth. The students were discussing the latest speech by Edward Holyoke, the portly president of Harvard.

Little Mrs. Hastings, nearly as wide as she was tall, entered the dining room, deftly balancing a tray of sliced beef and gravy, while her much heavier daughter Susanna, an Amazon in dark green muslin, followed, bearing tureens of mashed turnips and carrots.

James stole a glance at Susanna. A few years older than he, she was not blessed with a comely appearance, but her strong, fleshy face and thick brown hair were surprisingly pleasing to him. Susanna bent to offer him a tray of warm rolls, fresh from the oven. Her sleeves, rolled to the elbow, revealed clear, softly dimpled skin and sturdy forearms.

Thank you, James said, as she placed a pat of butter near the roll. Lavender and lanolin, clean and fresh, clung to her ample skirts.

You are welcome, Susanna breathed, revealing a broken front tooth. Her brown eyes sparkled with warmth, and a mischievous expression caught his glance.

James stopped staring at her and quickly averted his eyes.

I do appreciate the food—it has been a long, tedious day. My shoulders ache from hunching over books.

Perhaps later if you return I could apply a poultice—cinnamon and cloves is said to draw out the ache of sore muscles, Susanna said knowingly.

I may do that. Thank you kindly for the suggestion, James said, reaching for his bread and knife. A flush of emotion reddened his cheek.

Susanna glided away like an enormous ship under sail, but the rest of the evening—as she bore pitchers of water, fetched more vegetables, and carried in mince pie, spicy and fragrant—he kept glancing at her. For all of her size and sturdy appearance, she seemed to him most comely.

The evening at the tavern was, as always, long and enjoyable. James enjoyed nothing better than getting together with acquaintances. Cider, fresh from the fall’s pressing, and roast chestnuts made for agreeable complements to the lively conversation. James also tipped several glasses of spiced wine, sweet and strong. Tutor Henry Flynt was not in attendance, but the old man’s remarks from the night before were discussed and considered by the group of friends clustered by the fireplace. James forgot that the morrow would be Sunday and he’d be expected in church. The talk went on, exciting and fascinating. James was just finishing his last glass of spiced wine when the clock struck ten. To his surprise, the evening had reached the curfew hour. When he finally left the tavern shortly afterwards, his head was spinning, his tongue thick.

The night watch had ceased his round, and the common was dark and quiet. James walked past the tanner’s house, skirting the spreading maple with its rustling orange leaves. The window of the back door glowed with candlelight. He paused at the brick walk, uncertain. The door opened and there stood Susanna Hastings, her thick white night dress flowing to the ground, a candle in her hand. She certainly is large, James thought, but friendly and thoughtful.

Come in, she said softly. I’ve been waiting for you. I can rub the ache out of your shoulders.

James nodded gratefully and stepped into the small entryway. His head groggy with drink and weariness, he gripped her hand, accepting its tender strength as he followed her up the narrow stairs.

Chapter 3

Wedding Plans

July 9, 1760

In May of 1760 James concluded his studies at Harvard and accepted a position as his father’s usher in the Boston South Latin School. His graduate degree completed, it was time for him to move on and assume a more prominent position than he’d held at the Cambridge Latin School. As usher at the Boston South Latin School, he would be a teacher alongside his father, an assistant responsible for some of the teaching duties. True, he would be paid only sixty pounds a year, but he could look forward to that sum improving in time. He would be in charge of teaching the younger classes, known at the Boston South Latin School as forms. James whistled as he packed his boxes to leave Cambridge.

When Tutor Henry Flynt died in the winter of 1760, James gave the oration at his funeral. Remembering the old man with fondness, he penned the speech carefully in his precise, flowing handwriting. Eloquently, he thought, it began, At length happy old man, composed in pleasing peace, you have left this mortal state, having finished the labors of life, and fully enjoyed your wishes; you leave us mourning for the loss of you, and go to receive the rewards of a faithful servant. James knew he would truly miss the friendly old tutor.

A Funeral Oration.

Courtesy Harvard Houghton Archives

Back in Boston, James moved in with his parents to the house on School Street. One Sunday he decided to visit the more formal Trinity Church with some friends. He had been attending the liberal First Church of Cambridge while at Harvard. Usually his parents went to the church at Brattle Square in Boston, a Congregational church. Trinity, an Episcopal church, was an Anglican church aligned with the Church of England. The minister generally offered shorter sermons than those in the Puritan churches to which James was accustomed. He thought the large wooden building plain in appearance, but once inside, he looked appreciatively at the lovely paintings glowing on the walls.

The minister, in his black robes, shook James’s hand at the door. It is good to meet you this fine morning. I hope you enjoy our service. James took his hat off and bowed, then felt his hat bump something behind him. He turned to see a laughing young lady, red curls bouncing on her flushed cheeks, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

Hello, said James, stepping back for a better look at the charming sight. I hope I did not disturb you.

You did not, she said, smiling through even, white teeth, but I accept your apology.

I am James Lovell, he said impetuously. I am looking forward to the morning’s talk. And you are? he asked.

I am Mary Middleton. And these, she quickly pointed to a gray-haired matron clutching a muff and a sturdy, thick-set gentleman looking anxiously at her, are my parents—David Flick, and my mother, Anne Middleton Flick.

I am pleased to meet you, David said, bowing solemnly. Anne curtsied politely but said nothing.

Mary turned with a flip of her red curls to go into the church, and James found himself wanting to follow her. He breathed a sigh of relief when David Flick said, It would be an honor if you’d sit in our pew with us.

Oh, I would be most pleased to accompany you, James said. He followed the family in and found, to his delight, that he was seated right next to Mary. Most of the service he could hardly concentrate for considering her cheerful red curls, her soft dimples and quick smile, and the heady fragrance of her perfume. Since the name of her parents, Flick, was different from her own surname of Middleton, James thought that David must be her stepfather. Perhaps her own father had died. It was a mystery about Mary that he knew he would clear up, by and by.

James returned to Trinity the next week and the weeks after that to meet Mary and her parents. After a few weeks, David Flick asked if he would like to join them at their home for Sunday dinner. James answered with enthusiasm that he was more than happy to come. He had been hoping for such an invitation. Soon he became a regular visitor to their home on Sundays.

Mary’s company became an increasing delight to James. She had a quick wit and offered lively thoughts on so many topics he had never thought about, such as music, gardening, and marketing. When he complimented the family on the tasty fried codfish balls served one Sunday, Anne Middleton Flick nodded to Mary, who explained, smiling, how she had prepared them from dried salted cod. After dinner, Mary played popular songs on the harpsichord that James had never heard, while he watched the rainbow light from fine cut glass candleholders sparkling on the carpet and tried not to notice her slim waist and flushed rosy cheeks.

In fact, it was becoming more and more difficult for James not to realize he was quite attracted to Mary, appreciating her pleasant nature and thoughtfulness while wondering if he would ever touch her bouncing red curls or kiss her scented cheek.

One Wednesday evening in late summer, James came to the Flicks’ home. He wore his best linen shirt and brushed his brown hair back, tying it with a black ribbon. The mirror at home had assured him he looked his best, but he still felt nervous when he rapped on their white door.

David, I have something I would like to talk with you about, he said, when Mary’s stepfather opened the door.

Certainly. Come in with me to the parlor. Mary is in the garden. David motioned James in.

James cleared his throat. I wish to ask you for Mary’s hand in marriage, he said. He glanced anxiously at the older gentleman. He felt his every fortune turned on what David would say. I find her delightful in all ways. Will you consider it?

You have my permission and my blessing, David responded, shaking James’s hand. I know how fond you are of Mary, and I believe she, as well, is fond of you. He shook James’s hand with a powerful grasp. Come, I will take you to her. David led James to the back door and opened it to the garden.

Look who’s come to see you, my dear, said David, calling to Mary. I will leave you two young people alone for a time, he added. Enjoy the beautiful evening.

James shook David’s hand. Thank you, sir. Across the garden, Mary set down the basket of vegetables she had been picking and walked over to him. David smiled and went inside.

Why, hello, James. It is a pleasure to see you—and it’s not even Sunday! Mary said. She stood before him, brushing grains of dirt from her hands.

James laughed. I have something to talk with you about. Thank you for taking time from your gardening for me.

Mary smiled. I always have time for you. I can pick lettuce any time. She motioned for him to have a seat beside her on the iron settee under the arbor. A bush bearing fragrant roses climbed over the arbor and sheltered the two from the sun’s bright rays.

James sat down and kissed Mary’s cheek. She blushed prettily and moved an inch closer to him. The scent of crimson roses perfumed the air; puffy clouds sailed through the deep summer sky. My dear, I have enjoyed being with you and learning about you more than I can state. I want you to be in my life. Will you marry me?

There, he’d done it. He looked at her anxiously. But the words were no sooner out of his mouth than Mary smiled hugely and clapped her hands.

James, I was beginning to think you never would ask me. Of course I will! Her face glowed with happiness.

I am so glad! James answered. He rose to his feet in excitement. You know I love you.

James sat down next to Mary and wrapped her in a warm embrace. Then he kissed her, a moment he felt he had waited for an eternity. All was quiet, as each thought of the exciting prospect to come.

Clearing his throat, James gave Mary a look of assurance. We will marry this fall, November, I think, after I have settled in to my position as usher, teaching alongside my father.

That will be delightful,